9 Candles were on my last birthday cake,just one away from double digits .
9 Candles on my cake, one candle for each year.
9 Candles were lit, I could feel the heat of each of them.
9 Candles that punched 9 little holes in my cake.
9 Candles, not enough to light up the room, but plenty enough to light up my face.
9 Candles,nothing special and yet it gave me a sense of magic
9 Candles I had to blow out,my mother told me to make a wish
9 Candles ,their flames extinguished slowly one by one
The slowly extinguished very much like the fire in my soul.
I am Ernest Frydman I was born in Paris on May 7th, 1933.
9 Candles I had to blow out, my mother told me to male a wish.
My wish to have a cake with 10 Candles next year did not come though.
I was murdered in August 1942 in Auschwitz.